


Hopelessness of Wanting

by Professional_Creeper



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Depression, Eventual Smut, F/M, Gender-neutral Reader, M/M, Mutual Pining, Neurodivergent Reader, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Past Child Abuse, Sexual Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:20:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29142879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Professional_Creeper/pseuds/Professional_Creeper
Summary: It wasn't his fault, Dr. Chilton told himself. It wasn't as if he had any hope left for a real relationship—for even one night with you, the bright new nurse who reminded him of a sunflower. It wasn't his fault it was so easy to take advantage of patients with certain repressed traumas that made them... well, predisposed toward inappropriate behavior.For a darkfic request on Tumblr for villain Chilton + angst!
Relationships: Dr. Frederick Chilton/Reader
Kudos: 28





	1. The Sunflower and the Thorn

If anyone had been outside women’s wing cell 4B, they would have heard a wet choking sound. If they were among the less jaded of the staff, they might have investigated, but that sort of altruism was quickly extinguished here.

The occupant of this particular cell was named Julianne Barker. From three to fourteen years of age, she was sexually assaulted by first her father, then her brother, and then by dozens of men who paid fifty dollars for the privilege. At fourteen, Julianne picked up her father’s shotgun and shot him, her brother, and two other men in the house point-blank as they slept.

That was how she came to live at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

A blue light flashed rhythmically from inside the cell. The choking noises, slurping and gurgled, seemed to almost follow the rhythm of the lights.

Julianne was a docile patient. Without access to firearms she was harmless, and for the last ten years claimed to have no memory of the violent act at all. Her entire memory and very sense of self was a scrambled mess.

That was why Dr. Frederick Chilton began treating her with hypnotic therapy, to pull those buried memories out of her. It was meant to help her recovery. That was his intent, at the outset.

Wet noises were now accompanied by rustling fabric, audible if one were to stand just outside the door. Shaking breaths grew steadily louder. The brief screech of chair legs on the floor as a hand gripped it for support. A low moan rose above it all, a guttural cry that faltered and trembled in time with the steady, wet sucking. Choking. Slurping.

It was an accident—that was important for you to understand!

Dr. Chilton’s voice cracked as he lost control, his hips driving forward—an unconscious mistake—to be met with gagging, sputtering, as his broken scream echoed off the cell’s bare walls. And then the only noise was panting. The screech of the chair again as he slumped back down upon it and wiped his brow. Finally, he cleared his throat and tucked himself back into his pants. Sat up straight.

In a smooth, authoritative voice, he said, “Waking now. You’re waking in a quiet room. Safe. Calm.”

It _was_ an accident—the first time it happened. Julianne did not only relive her memories when put under hypnosis, but fell into a full regressive dissociative state. Chilton had not been expecting the willowy young woman to suddenly get on her knees and begin unbuckling his pants.

And yet, when he realized that he was alone… that he had sole access to the security tapes and the guards would look the other way… he did not stop her. Neither did he do anything to force her! Never wove his fingers through her yellow hair or bucked into her mouth. Everything she did was her own volition.

That was how he justified it to himself.

Acting out traumatic memories could be therapeutic in many circumstances. It allowed her to take control of her past. It was exposure therapy. At best, he was helping. At worst, she never remembered or knew what was real. Always enjoyed their “sessions.”

That was how he justified it to himself.

He knew it was sick. But what did it matter? He had given up ever finding a real relationship. Hannibal Lecter turned out to be a serial killer. Will Graham was running around Italy chasing him. Neither man ever returned his admiration. Chilton had given up entirely on love, himself, and the dull pretense of morality.

He would never get to fuck the mouth he truly wanted—never see the lips he _pretended_ were parted around his cock anywhere but his imagination.

You would never desire the old, scarred doctor—the autocratic, pompous Dr. Chilton, twice-maimed and hated by his own staff.

Might as well take it where he could.

* * *

As he opened the door to the cell, his heart leaped into his throat and he barely caught a yelp before it burst in its humiliating high pitch from his mouth.

“Oh! Dr. Chilton! S-sorry, I didn’t know you were in a session!” you stammered.

The perfect lips he had been picturing now parted in surprise. Your eyes shone like the sun. He forgot to breathe. Then the shame of what he’d done came crashing back, and the way you, in your perfection, avoided looking at his face—his scar—pierced him.

“You forgot to check schedules? _Again?_ ” he chided, voice cold as the dead thing in his chest.

“No, sir! I mean—”

“It’s fine, Dr. Chilton. _You’re_ the one who’s supposed to be in his office right now, according to your own schedule.” Nurse Clerval strode into the hallway behind you, white sneakers silent on the stone floor.

Your face lit up for your rescuer—that bright, innocent smile that was almost always present (the exception, of course, being when _he_ was around). Clerval had a soft spot for protecting you. All of his staff seemed to. Who could blame them? The newest nurse, like a lost puppy, who hadn’t yet lost your shine as everyone in this dismal place eventually did. It only drove home his own loneliness—the hopelessness of wanting you.

“How careless of me,” Chilton said before rolling his eyes. “Fortunate you have friends to speak for you.” He got a twisted pleasure from watching your smile fall again.

It was the best he could do, he thought as he limped away, the tension on his abdominal scar acting up. If he couldn’t have your light for himself, he could at least stomp some of it out so it wasn’t taunting him all the time.

He knew that was no justification, but what did it matter?

He was filth. The only reason he survived Miriam Lass’s bullet was to suffer more on this Earth—he knew that was the truth, because he didn’t deserve to be spared. It wasn’t a miracle. It was justice. 

He simply hadn’t suffered enough yet.

You were everything he was not, thrown in his face to torment him. Always so kind, and full of life—a sunflower standing tall above a garden of thorny roses. Loved by all. And he coveted you for himself. Needed you like rain. But beautiful creatures always turned their faces toward the light. You would never cast an eye down to him—the thorniest vine whose petals had all been stripped away, never to bloom again. He was lost in a place of shadows you would never see.


	2. Interrupted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: suicidal thinking

“Don’t worry about what Dr. Chilton thinks,” Nurse Clerval advised as soon as he was out of earshot. “He’s an asshole.”

“Yeah, but”—you tugged the hem of your scrubs—“He’s right. I keep messing up. I think he hates me.” You stopped there, too ashamed to admit you were the biggest fuck-up on the entire staff, new or not, or that you could _tell_ Dr. Chilton regretted his decision to hire you.

“And the rest of us hate _him_. Just keep doing your job, learn the ropes—he’ll back off.”

You nodded silently and continued your rounds, delivering meds and checking in on patients. Amy had to be restrained again when she wouldn’t stop biting. Julianne seemed more confused lately, though you hadn’t known any of them long enough to tell what was normal.

Clerval’s words hung over you. It didn’t seem right that everyone hated Dr. Chilton. He was a little brusque, yes, but intelligent. Wickedly sarcastic. Posturing and puffing himself up whenever people he admired came to visit the hospital, and he wanted badly to impress them. Lonely.

Your cheeks heated at the thought of those intense bursts of green under his brow—the first thing you noticed when he conducted your interview. His eyes almost matched the light green scrubs you wore at the hospital you trained in, though the uniform here was white (as if leaning into the _One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest_ vibe.)

But what drew you in wasn’t that his eyes were beautiful—though they were—it was the way they made contact with yours. Staring you down with fake confidence, as if he were forcing it. That stare must have been off-putting to most people, but it made your spirit leap with that particular spark of connection one only feels when finding a kindred spirit.

“Hey! Still sulking? Hurry it up,” Clerval called, jolting you to attention. You trotted after.

It was nice having a mentor on the staff, but at the same time, it just felt like having another person to eventually disappoint.

“Here! What’s next?” you beamed.

* * *

Dr. Chilton didn’t back off over the next few weeks as Nurse Clerval suggested. The more you _thought_ you were getting the hang of routines at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, the more mistakes you seemed to make, and the harder its administrator came down on you. And the more the handsome, scarred Dr. Chilton hated you, the more nervous mistakes you made.

In nursing school, you aced everything technical. Every written test. Every memorized statistic, sterilization procedure, medication instruction, and anatomy diagram. But when it came to interacting with patients and families—being compassionate yet professional—nothing came naturally. As a child, you learned how to fake eye contact by staring at the bridge of someone’s nose. How to smile bright and encourage others so they don’t reject you. So they don’t see you as cold or weird. But sometimes, you felt like an alien just _parroting_ human behavior.

The guy you had been dating when you started working at the BSHCI said something similar to you when he broke it off. That you were “unavailable” and never understood what he needed.

There was a reason your first choice job was at a hospital where the only patients were mentally ill murderers.

Dr. Frederick Chilton was the same way. Just better at hiding it, or braver about not caring when his mannerisms rubbed people the wrong way. He didn’t fall apart like you did. He was… incredible. As soon as you met him, you knew you wanted the job. His smile was forced but friendly that first day, and you went home dreaming about getting to know him better.

But as soon as you were hired, the friendliness went out of his eyes. On your very first day, you passed him in the hall and smiled. He frowned and informed you that you were five minutes late clocking in. Everything—every forgotten ID card and typo on a patient file—was proof to Dr. Chilton that you were incompetent.

_Worthless._

He even pointed it out when you couldn’t stand up for yourself and let Nurse Clerval defend you.

_Pathetic._

Why did you ever think someone like him might like you?

He wasn’t an asshole. The constant reprimanding and disciplinary write-ups were no more than you deserved. It just hurt coming from someone you admired and wished things could be different with.

God, you wished just once he would smile at you again. Tell you that you did a good job.

Your fist hovered over the dark mahogany of the carved doors to Dr. Chilton’s office, poised to knock. To tender your resignation. You hadn’t seen the extravagant interior of his office since your interview, but you could imagine him in there: laying back on the leather couch sipping a Scotch, surrounded by tall shelves of medical books and sculpted wall molding. The air filled with the library smell of old paper.

In your imagination, his cold green eyes would soften, and he would ask why you were leaving. Apologize for being so hard on you. The Chilton in your mind clasped your hand, and you both blushed, wondering if the gesture was merely a show of professional support, or if it held a deeper meaning. He clasped tighter instead of dropping your hand, knowing— understanding—the heat behind your gaze.

A dull thud came from inside the office, followed by footsteps and a muttering voice, muffled through the door. The footsteps started heading your way, and you walked briskly down the hall toward the exit, not looking back when a moment later, the mahogany doors creaked open.

_Coward._

There was no point quitting, anyway. You would never find another hospital job as slow-paced, where you rarely had to speak with outsiders—only the regular long-term patient-inmates, and a small staff of orderlies, guards, nurses, and psychiatrists.

Sometimes you thought you should quit nursing altogether, but then what would you do? Flip burgers? You’d be bad at that, too. There was nothing you wouldn’t be a failure at.

A fog hovered over you, creeping its tendrils into every thought, turning every tiny setback into the end of the world, and making every success unimportant. Leaving BSHCI wouldn’t make it better. Nothing would make it better. You were the fuck-up. Anywhere you went, the problem would always be _you._

Every smile you gave was forced, but you kept smiling as if everything was normal. So long as nobody could see you drowning, it wasn’t real. There was still hope that you could get your shit together, and no one would be the wiser that you were actually a disgusting piece of human trash. So long as you could smile like you were fine, you weren’t a _complete_ failure.

But the more you pretended to be upbeat—pretended to be someone likable—the more you were certain your coworkers _didn’t_ like you. They must have been sick of covering for you by now.

A week later, the nurse you were replacing grunted, _“Finally,”_ as you sprinted through the door three minutes after your shift started. That one unremarkable interaction was the final proof of a theory you had been nursing for a long time:

Everyone’s lives would be easier without you.

That was the final conclusion, the final, creeping thought the suffocating fog wormed into your head. The crescendo of a distorted symphony that had been subtly building to this from the beginning.

You couldn’t force yourself to smile anymore.

* * *

You didn’t have authorized access to the medication supply room, but you swiped a key from Dr. Tenley’s office. For a secure facility, the doctors of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane were lax about locking their own offices. She would notice it was missing by Monday morning, and there would be serious repercussions for stealing it, but you weren’t concerned. You wouldn’t be around to face them.

With the high-potency drugs available in a hospital and a working knowledge of pharmacology, ending a life could be quick and relatively painless.

The key clicked in the door. You glanced up and down the hallway to make sure no one was coming. But the coast was clear.

A halfhearted breath puffed from your nose. Part of you wanted to find it funny how easy this was, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to laugh.

You stealthily opened the windowless metal door, stepped inside, and shut and locked it behind you without making a sound. Once inside the small room, you let out a silent sigh of relief (or despair). Only a handful of people had a key, so you were unlikely to be interrupted, especially at night with only a skeleton staff on duty.

There were three rows of tall storage shelves crammed into the walk-in closet with clean tile in the few places wall was exposed. The whir of a climate-control system drowned out the pulse in your ears as you scanned for the drugs you were looking for.

You found them faster than expected. They could have at least been hidden. The universe could have put a few more obstacles in your path, but instead, the universe was giving you a big fat sign it wanted you dead.

You picked up the packaging. Turned it over in your hand.

Just a handful of these, and all the problems you cause would be over. No more reprimands. No more disappointing everyone you meet. No more wrenching in your gut every time Dr. Chilton looks at you with contempt when you long to see a smile. No more trying so hard every minute of every day.

It wasn’t like too many people would be sad you were gone anyway. Most of them will be relieved.

Your eyes stung.

Wasn’t someone going to walk in and stop you?

Your lip trembled. Why would anyone want to stop you?

Tears rolled down your face as the reality of your plan set in. Survival instinct kicked and clawed at the cloying fog of twisted logic that promised you would be helping everyone if you stopped existing, but it was losing the battle.

And then you heard someone call your name.

You sniffed and looked up. No… not someone calling your name. _Moaning it._ You crept to the last row of shelves at the back and gasped—Dr. Chilton had his laptop tucked onto a shelf and was watching a clip of security feed on loop. His red, glistening erection thick in his hand as he masturbated, whimpering your name over and over.

You watched silently—he was so engrossed he didn’t notice your shadow falling over the aisle. It was only when the package of drugs slipped from your hand and clattered on the floor that he jumped with a shriek, covering himself, though his massive erection was still conspicuous in his pants. His eyes bugged out at you, face red with embarrassment—but then they quickly narrowed to anger.

“What are you doing in here? You are not authorized to be in this room,” he barked.

All you could think about was what you heard—the name gasping from his lips. It overpowered every other thought. “Were you… imagining me?”

His nostrils flared. He hastily shut the laptop which was looping security footage of you outside his office door.

Then he laughed—forced and cruel. “What I imagine is not your concern. Do not read into it. I have never shown you special treatment, have I? Do you think that I could have feelings for an incompetent nurse?”

“I know that!” Your lip trembled again now that the briefest spark of hope you had was shattered. Of course he didn’t like you. He was just a pervert who jacked off to _all_ the nurses. “Don’t you think I know that I’m worthless? You’ve made it abundantly clear.”

Fresh tears rolled down your cheeks, and Chilton’s eyes softened, as if for the first time realizing that all his attempts to hurt you had succeeded. You were hurt. And he did not enjoy it as much as he thought.

“You are not worthless,” he said quietly. Then his eyes flicked down to the floor, at the medication you dropped. He picked it up, read what it was. His expression fell. “What were you doing in here, nurse?” he swallowed.

“Nothing. I just… needed something for a patient.”

“Lie,” he said.

You looked away. Everything was numb. It barely even occurred to you that someone stopped you after all. A handsome, awkward, cruel doctor you admired was in the same room with you and had said his first kind words since the day you met.

He took a slow step toward you. Then another. His hand—slender and surprisingly large—pressed your arm in an attempt at a comforting gesture. An alien parroting human behavior.

“You are not worthless. I assure you, none of your mistakes have been grievous. You are certainly not the least competent of my staff. Far from it. So don’t…” He swallowed. “…Do not do anything rash.”

“Sure,” you scoffed. “Then why am I the one you’re always reprimanding? The one _always_ being called to your office?” You knew what he thought of you; he was just trying to talk you down.

“That…” he began in a broken voice, “That must be painfully obvious now.”

Your eyes peeled away from the floor and found his face, and the storm of emotions flashing over it. Shame. Trepidation. A faint light of hope.

“You like me?” Your voice sounded far away. The analytical part of your brain was whirring away above the swamp of depression bogging you down with lies that nobody could like you. But it made sense. As the words spilled from your mouth, it was like a veil lifted.

Pulling pigtails. He was pulling your pigtails because he _liked you._ A middle-aged psychiatrist ought to have more emotional maturity handling a crush than a third-grader, but there was a reason he worked at a hospital where the only patients were mentally ill murderers. There was a reason his staff hated him. Why he was lonely, and why you desperately wanted to be the one to fill the empty space by his side.

Frederick Chilton was a lot like you.

You could understand each other and be less alone in this world, together.

* * *

His eyes were closed and he was muttering something self-flagellating and vaguely apologetic when the kinetic sense of you moving closer caused Frederick Chilton to look up.

No longer out at arm’s distance, you were within each other’s breathing space. And now, he was genuinely terrified—terrified you were going to return his feelings. Of the joy it might bring crashing down on him like an airplane. He read something he never expected to see in your body language, and it shook him deeper than being walked in on with his cock in his hands.

You should have reported him for ethics violations.

If you made the case to the hospital board that he created a hostile work environment because he wanted you sexually, he would lose his job and do everybody a favor.

But _this_ —the intention in your body—this was the farthest thing from what he deserved. You confirmed his fear when your soft, perfect lips melded against his. Yet, as always when he knew a thing was wrong, he did not push you away. Did nothing to stop you. He let you deepen the kiss slowly, and you were _warm_ , the taste of you sweeter than he imagined in all his lonely nights of fantasizing.

His cock twitched, your closeness awakening his urges again. He moaned as your lips parted, his lips parting with them, and your tongue gently probed inside. You were tentative at first, investigating only the nearest reaches of his inner lips, and then his hand spasmed on your arm, and with a low growl, he pulled your closer—then you became ravenous. All the turbulent emotions churning within you broke free in that kiss. You sobbed into his mouth, your tongue, hot and fervent, explored and assaulted the depths of him, your hands weaving into the hair behind his neck, and he could taste the salt on your face. It was all his tongue could do to keep up—to let himself be consumed.

Dear god, if only that passion would have ended him then and there. The moment your lips met his in an unexpected act of reciprocation was the fulfillment of every want, every tattered and twisted hope—the highest delight a man such as him could achieve. And he knew—rightly so—that all that could follow was suffering of his own design.

_Dear god, let me die before I see this in ruins. Let me die with my happiness._

* * *

The sex wasn’t all that good. But then again, you had gone into that supply closet intending to never come out, so overall, being fucked by the man you had been pining for was a positive turn of events.

It wasn’t how you’d imagined your first time with Dr. Chilton, pressed against a cold tile wall. A hungry kiss led to his clothed erection pushing against your thigh, led to you unbuckling his belt.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he whispered hoarsely, nervous eyes darkened with lust—and you nodded, sliding down your scrub pants, which stuck on your sneakers, hobbling your ankles. He was in too much of a rush to let you take them off—he only opened up his slacks and pulled his cock out of the fly of his briefs. And then he was thrusting into you from behind—frantic, desperate. Your ankles being bound only added to the thrill of him being in control. Dr. Chilton wanted you after all—fantasized about you—and now he was taking you, and all you had to do was surrender to his desire.

His breathy moans rose with each snap of his hips, his hands traveling up your chest under your shirt, fingers curling around your neck, possessing you. Touching every inch of skin he could get his hands on. And that noise that saved your life, your name on his lips, he chanted in your ear.

He was fast—hips racing as if this were his only chance, and if he waited, you would disappear—and he finished fast. You didn’t spend long with your face pressed to the cold tile when his moans broke into a shattered scream, and his head slumped, sweaty, against your back.

Then he turned you around to face him and got on his knees. Heedless of his own mess that he’d left sticky and bitter inside you, he pumped his fingers into you and sucked like he was fulfilling a duty. Clinical about the task, and efficient. It didn’t take him long to bring your arousal to a climax in his mouth.

After, he was quiet. When you had cleaned up, he looked at you like you were a mistake… only you weren’t certain what kind of mistake. If you reached out to reassure him, would he jerk away and tell you to never speak of this again?

“Was it… all you expected?” you asked robotically. Your arm crossed your body, hugging yourself.

And then he kissed you again, softly. He ran his fingers over your hair and pulled back just far enough to study your face. His eyes were wet, clouded with a million thoughts and regrets you would only learn about later.

“You are perfect,” he whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this chapter went some places… Please don’t bottle up your feelings if they’re telling you horrible things about yourself! They aren’t true, I promise. You matter. ❤️
> 
> If you are struggling... 
> 
> Call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255
> 
> Online chat: https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/chat/
> 
> Help via Text: https://www.crisistextline.org/ (Text HOME to 741741)
> 
> List of additional resources: https://www.healthline.com/health/mental-health/suicide-resource-guide


	3. Chapter 3

“You’re coming home with me,” Dr. Chilton said with the authoritative tone of your boss, the hospital administrator. Then you looked at him with questions in your eyes, and his confidence quickly broke. “That is… I would like you to come home with me. It would be professionally irresponsible to leave you alone. You just tried to—”

“I didn’t,” you interjected. “I didn’t try to do anything. I just…” Thought about it. Planned it. Began to execute the plan. But you didn’t _do_ anything.

Chilton watched you, his analytical gaze muddied with guilt. He held your arm as if you might drift away if he didn’t. You glanced down the wide marble hallway of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, but no one was there to see him grasping you so familiarly. You should have known it was safe—Dr. Chilton wouldn’t have risked public affection if there was a chance of being discovered. The main hall was darkened. This wasn’t an emergency hospital, so there were only one or two medical personnel on call overnight, and guards whose rounds Chilton knew by heart.

“If you prefer, I _could_ have you kept under observation. However, it would be more pleasant if I did it myself. Simply to make sure you are alright.”

“Don’t worry. It’s not like I’ve never thought about killing myself before. I’ve never gone through with it,” you shrugged dismissively.

“That is _not_ a reason not to be worried,” his voice pitched up in alarm. “In fact, I am more concerned that this is a pattern.”

Fuck. You forgot you were talking to a psychiatrist.

How could you make him understand you didn’t need help? You would never have the guts to actually go through with it, however much you wanted to. Were you even depressed? Probably not. You were just a dumb, dramatic, half-assed piece of shit who couldn’t even finish— _STOP!_

Fuck.

“OK,” you conceded, tongue numb and heavy. “If you think it’s best… I’ll go with you.”

* * *

It wasn’t until you were sobbing in the passenger seat of his classic red cabriolet that Chilton began to have doubts about his own intentions.

“Perhaps it would be better if I brought you to a friend’s house,” he offered softly. Your head shot up, puffy eyes filled with—of all things—betrayal. “Or a hospital.”

“You’re going to check me into a psych ward after fucking me?”

He stiffened. In the few months you’d worked at BSHCI, you always seemed cheerful and naïve—the cutting remark took him by surprise.

Right after you made it, your hands flew to your mouth. “Sorry…” you murmured, equally taken aback. “I didn’t mean that. I know you would never take advantage of me.”

The apology cut deeper than the insult, though you wouldn’t understand why. He fell silent and stricken as he turned the ignition.

Dr. Chilton’s home was an obscenely modern beast with all white walls, white kitchen, hard angles, and open spaces that gave it an air of luxury, but moreover, vacancy. It was a five-star hotel: grandiose, without a single hint of a person living in it.

He offered you the guest-room, like a gentleman—no! _He_ would take the guest-room, and you could—

The press of your lips cut off his nervous babbling. You smiled (a weak, tired smile so different from the sunlight that radiated from your face in public) and said you didn’t want to be alone. So he led you to his bedroom, another pompously large space that dwarfed the king-size bed at its center. He often had trouble sleeping, but never considered that his bedroom’s fishbowl quality could have anything to do with it.

His blood pressure was dangerously high as he stood next to the bed. How was he supposed to sleep next to you? Undress in front of you? He was near panic at his foolish decision to bring you home when there was a sudden weight around his middle grabbing him from behind. He gasped and jerked away before realizing, quite obviously, it was you. But his heart was still racing in his ears, and he winced as you reached for him again.

“Don’t… touch me, please.”

Your eyes widened, mortified. “S-sorry sir,” you stammered, and it didn’t escape his notice that your entire body went rigid, or that you reverted to calling him “sir” like when he was reprimanding you at work. You must have been expecting him to blow up at you. He’d conditioned this response. He’d successfully made you afraid of him, and his reward was a sharp pang in his chest.

His hands found your shoulders, and he pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead. “It is all right,” he said. His best effort to be comforting came out dreadfully stiff and monotone. “And you… you may call me Frederick, if you like.”

He watched your throat tighten as you swallowed. With relief, he felt your shoulders relax, and then you looked up—your eyes fell on his like dawn breaking over Chesapeake Bay. Your mouth shaped into the first syllable of his name, but paused as your eyes locked on his left cheek.

“Oh,” you exclaimed. “Is it because…” You reached up to caress the round scar where a bullet had entered, but withdrew your hand quickly before making contact (and had the decency to blanch at your faux pas).

“Yes,” he gritted his teeth. “Because of _that._ ” And because of the ones left on his abdomen by Gideon’s scalpel. And the scars not visible on the surface, left by years of neglect.

You shifted uncomfortably, seemingly at a loss if physical contact was off-limits. “I’m sorry.”

“It is all right. I am fine.”

Your lips twitched upward at that, and a gentle, sarcastic puff of air escaped your nose. Chilton straightened his posture. If anyone else had dared laugh, he likely would have gone into a defensive pique and shut down, but instead, he returned your lopsided smirk.

Look at the two of you, pretending you’re fine. _Just fine._

“That is to say, I am not incapable of touch”—he squeezed your shoulders as if to prove a point—“Our… rendezvous earlier was… enjoyable. I simply do not like being caught by surprise,” he explained haltingly. His cheeks heated. The truth was, he was bluffing: he had little experience with _affectionate_ touch, so he couldn’t say what he was comfortable with. But surprises he was certain he did _not_ appreciate.

“Then are you sure about sharing a bed?” you asked with tentative shyness he found adorable. “I like cuddling. But if it doesn’t feel good to you, then…”

“It will be more than all right,” so long as you do not thrash too much in your sleep, he added mentally. He frowned. “I would _like_ to enjoy cuddling.”

But he was never conditioned to enjoy physical contact by affectionate parents or by lovers, and life experience had done little but teach him to anticipate pain. Dr. Chilton understood how abnormal brains functioned. He knew he might never gain that oxytocin boost normal people get from the act of twining their bodies around each other. Still, it meant a great deal that you wanted to twine your body around _his_ —that his simple presence pressed claustrophobically to your skin might invoke a positive emotional response.

Exposure therapy was the only treatment. If he was to become accustomed to being touched, he must practice.

“What should I do to support you?”

“Just go slowly,” he yielded. “Give me warning.”

* * *

He didn’t know why he showed you. Perhaps there was no other choice—sleeping with contact lenses always made his eyes red and irritated by morning. But perhaps he _hoped_ that you would run away and get it over with. A masochistic side of him wanted to see your face contort in horror, disgust. For you to realize this hideous _thing_ had fucked you, and curse him for hiding the truth.

Anticipation of your impending rejection felt like a boulder lifting off his chest. He was being crushed under his own happiness, unaccustomed to bearing your thoughtful gazes and kind words. The world would be right again when you ran.

“Come here a moment,” he called you into the master bathroom, voice calm but a quarter octave too high with strain. “You deserve to see this.”

Every muscle in his frail, hacked-to-pieces-and-put-back-together body tensed as you cautiously poked your head through the door and saw him standing in front of the mirror. You remained placid, but your eyes registered shock as they fell on his ghostly blue dead eye, then shifted down to his sunken cheek—the bullet hole more pronounced without makeup covering it, a gap of teeth missing where the bullet tore through his jaw.

Instead of disgust, you approached him, padding across the bathroom tile in your bare feet. You asked if it was alright, and waited for his faltering nod before caressing his tattered face under your warm palm. You called him handsome. Rugged. You called him a thousand beautiful things in a tender, soothing voice that held such magic in it he almost believed the words were true.

* * *

Dr. Chilton held you warm to his chest through the night, barely sleeping himself. Sleeping was impossible under those conditions. The scene of his dark bedroom would give, from the outside, the impression of peaceful stillness, but uneasy emotions roiled inside him, rocking him like a boat on a stormy sea.

Fucking was different.

When his cock was buried deep inside of you, claiming, possessing you, a primal urge took him over, blinding all his senses with desire, blotting out his over-active thoughts. But the feeling of you resting silent and trusting in his bed sickened his stomach.

He stroked your hair, watching your perfect lips move ever so slightly with each exhale that passed between them. He had been so wrong about you. Underneath your bright, friendly, forced smile was a garden as thorny as his own, and he loved you all the more for it. More than you could ever know. More than he imagined possible when he thought of you as a sunflower soaring toward heaven, high above his reach—an unobtainable treasure he admired with envious eyes.

For once in his miserable life, Dr. Chilton found someone who understood his pain.

A sunflower was just another plant trying to escape the cold, dark soil.

He flinched at being touched, especially on his abdomen or face. Holding you while you were deep in a sound sleep from which you barely stirred was tolerable. Not as pleasant as he thought it should have been, but not unpleasant. The sensation of contact was a bit squirmy, like worms writhing under his rib cage, but the warmth of your body, the sight of your peaceful face nestled against his chest made him feel protective. Strong. Desirable. You felt safe with him. A new kind of contentment washed over him, and so he bore the squiggling worms and hoped they would go away with time.

You felt _safe_ with him.

His stomach turned again.

You felt safe, because you didn’t know that Dr. Chilton heard everything inside the BSHCI walls, including the staff break room. You didn’t know he was listening when you told Nurse Clerval that your boyfriend’s night shifts were putting pressure on your relationship. That Chilton began scheduling your shifts to conflict with his, hoping it would be the last straw. And it was. A few weeks later, you were single, and he celebrated his victory alone with a Scotch in his office, a smirk on his lips as he watched you cry to Clerval on the security feed.

You wouldn’t have let him hold you if you knew how deliberate his efforts had been to break you—to dull your shine enough that you might consider him an option, even though he was too cowardly to ever ask you for a date.

In the end, everything worked out better than he could have planned. The ends justified the means, did they not?

Forget the fact that, had a janitor not been cleaning his office, you would have been found dead on the floor of the supply closet tomorrow. Gone forever. How could he have known he pushed you that far?

Dr. Chilton had given up on himself long ago, but he had never considered ending his life. Instead, he used his misery to justify all manner of unscrupulous conduct. He hated himself so deeply that he might as well prey on a disassociating patient reliving memories of sexual abuse. After weeks in a coma, losing an eye, a kidney, half of his hearing, did he not deserve to take what he wanted? The possibility of getting caught was worth a moment’s pleasure when he hardly had anything to lose.

Was he preying on you, he wondered, as you slept in his arms?

No. This was different than Julianne. You were consenting, aware of yourself and your actions. A little depressed perhaps, but nothing that would have you deemed mentally unfit to stand trial. If you ever committed a crime, you would not be sentenced to his care.

You were wonderful, kind, and melancholy, and you wanted him. Your skin was soft, and your lips softer. He dipped his head to kiss them with the lightest ghost of pressure so you would not wake up. Your fingers curled in his silk pajamas, and you murmured a few cooing syllables, nuzzling closer before you stilled again. He would take care of you from now on. Do right by you. Everything he had done was worth it, because you were here with him.

Still, his stomach turned. The worms wriggled in his intestines, and no matter how heavy his eyelids, he could not sleep.


End file.
